


Seven Days After Remus Died

by xylodemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bring Back Black, Character Death, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-06
Updated: 2004-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sirius is falling apart, and Harry doesn't think he can pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days After Remus Died

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: I didn't tag this necrophilia because it really isn't, but it's a close call. Mileage my vary, and all that.

**The Prophet**

> _Remus John Lupin, aged 38, died on 21 August, 1998. The former professor for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry suffered a heart attack while oh holiday on the continent with long time companion, Auror Nymphandora Tonks. Mr. Lupin left no family behind; his father, Muggle John Marcus Lupin died in 1986, and his mother, Hazel Lupin nee Carmichael died in 1990. Mr. Lupin is survived by his close friends Harry James Potter, and the recently pardoned Sirius Black._
> 
> _There are no services scheduled for Mr. Lupin as of yet._

The pages of the _Evening Prophet_ are thin and flimsy, and the edges crumple easily under the pressure of Harry's fingers. Harry stares at the article with wide, unblinking eyes, the numb chill of shock slowly ebbing over his body. He closes his eyes quickly, hoping the article will be gone when he opens them, hoping he will find a Quality Quidditch Supplies' advert in its place.

When he opens his eyes, Remus' obituary is still there, the unwanted information glaring at him in neat, precise typeface.

He tries to deny what he sees, but he cannot, because Fawkes is in the window. Fawkes, who Dumbledore only uses for post when it is urgent, carrying at tightly rolled letter that is clearly two feet of parchment.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _It would not be my wish to tell you this in this manner, but my current situation leaves me no choice. Remus is dead. It was done by the Killing Curse, and I have every reason to believe there was Death Eater involvement._
> 
> _For safety reasons, Tonks' portkey was keyed to the Ministry building, instead of Grimmauld Place. Unfortunately, Tonks' arrival in the Ministry's lobby with a dead werewolf has caused some question. I am at the Ministry now, trying to explain to Fudge why Remus left England without notifying Beast and Being, and why Tonks was carrying an unregistered portkey bearing my charmwork._
> 
> _I hear Fudge has already notified the papers. He was likey in a hurry to put his own story about..._

Harry's limbs are suddenly weak and leaden, and the letter shakes in his hand. Dumbledore's slanted, looping script swims before his eyes, the only words Harry can focus on are _Remus is dead Remus is dead Remus is dead Remus is dead_.

The letter falls from his hand and flutters to the floor, slipping from limp fingers as he turns his attention back to the newspaper. It is the same story, only with deliberate mistakes, but it is somehow less painful in the cold black and grey of the newspaper than in Dumbledore's familiar script. The inconsistencies in the obituary make sense, now that he knows the source, with Dumbledore's confirmation that the Ministry still writes the _Prophet_. Fudge's words are an eerie mockery of Dumbledore's; the truth veiled in Ministry cover-ups and shrouded in polite little lies. 

There is a picture of Remus in the newspaper, a small black and grey square along the right margin of the article. Harry thinks it might have been taken at Hogwarts; Remus' clothes are twenty years out of style, and James Potter is on his broomstick in the background. Picture-Remus looks tired and peaky, but he is young, and smiling, and completely unconcerned with lies printed to his left.

A dark-haired young man with a dangerous smile wanders into the frame and slings his arm over Remus' shoulder. 

_Sirius_

Picture-Sirius smiles, and Harry feels like he has been hit with an Unforgivable. His breath comes short, and the lingering chill of shock falls away, replaced by an ache, sharp and painful and empty.

Then, the door opens, and it is Sirius, his face stony and his eyes dark and wild, a rumpled copy of the _Evening Prophet_ in his hand. 

Upstairs, Mrs. Black is screaming. 

Boneless and numb, Harry sinks to the floor and joins her.

**Day One**

Sirius doesn't look at the heavy, glass bottle as he brings it to his lips, because the swirling amber liquid reminds him of Remus' eyes.

Firewhisky is magic, a simple potion meant to warm the body as it relaxes the mind. Distantly, Sirius is aware of the magic coursing through him, of the warmth dancing over his skin, but he does not really feel it. It is harsh on his tongue, burning a searing trail down his throat before churning sourly in his empty stomach. The heat it gives is artificial and false, and inside, Sirius is cold. 

Grimmauld Place is cold and empty, as well, dark and dreary and loathsome. The hate and malice and Dark Magic has always been there, waiting and festering, but without Remus it seems active and alive, ebbing off the ancient walls in heavy, sickly waves. 

His bedroom taunts him, mocks him, makes Remus' absence more pointed and painful. 

Remus' clothes are in the wardrobe, and his toiletries are on the dresser. His books are on the desk and night stand, and his travelling case, still packed from him trip, sits at the foot of the bed. The bed smells of Remus, his familiar scent clinging to the sheets and duvet. It reminds Sirius of morning sex and afternoon naps, of late night conversations and falling asleep with Remus' breath ghosting over his neck.

His faded brown cardigan hangs from a hook on the back of the door, an old, shapeless thing with patched elbows and faded cuffs. The fabric has been worn to smoothness over the years, and is soft between Sirius' fingers, just like Remus' hair.

Sirius begins to shake, his body convulsing with the force of the sobs it is trying to contain. Hoarse, desperate screams rise in his throat, only to die on his lips, and salty, stinging tears form behind his eyes, but stubbornly refuse to fall. He is still cold, but the air around him is thick, heavy and suffocating and dead. The room is closing in on him, smothering him, the walls pressing in to devour him whole now that Remus is no longer alive to keep the house at bay. 

Sirius tears from the room and thunders down the stairs, his footfalls drowned out by his mother's screams. 

He flings open the door of the first room he finds, the once doxy-infested sitting room on the main floor of the house. Remus favourite chair is in the room, right in front of the fireplace, a dusty lump of dark wood and grey brocade that Sirius thinks is terribly uncomfortable. Harry is sitting in it, his green eyes wide and wet, his cheeks damp with tears. There is a book in his lap, which Sirius recognizes as Remus', an ancient volume with yellowed pages and an irreparably cracked spine. 

When Harry sees Sirius he stands quickly, the book thumping loudly as it lands on the floor. 

The chair smells of Remus, like the sheets and duvet, his scent almost a part of the heavy fabric. It is slightly different than the bed, lacking the hint of himself underneath, but it is overwhelming and familiar, and Sirius once again finds it difficult to breathe. Harry climbs into his lap, as if he is a boy of eight and not a young man of eighteen. Sirius wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, and Harry buries his face in Sirius' neck, his tears silently soaking the collar of Sirius' shirt.

**Day Two**

Dumbledore mentions the wizarding cemetery in Otter St. Catchpole, where Remus' parents are buried. It is a bright, green, and well-kept place, just a few miles away from the Burrow. Sirius, his eyes focused on the breakfast he is not eating, shakes his head while pushing his food around his plate.

Undaunted, Dumbledore presses on, studying Sirius over the rim of his teacup as he speaks. He reminds Sirius of the Muggle cemetery just outside Godric's Hollow, suggesting Remus could be buried with James and Lily. Again, Sirius is silent. He stabs at his kippers as he shakes his head, his fork screeching shrilly across the surface of the china. 

Dumbledore sighs heavily, and says Sirius' name in a tone that is edged with warning.

Sirius explodes, leaping to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He shouts at Dumbledore, something that Harry has never heard anyone do, his hoarse voice thundering off the dingy kitchen walls. He tells Dumbledore he will not have the man who sent Remus to his death trying to arrange his final affairs. 

Sirius' eyes flash wildly, as if daring the Headmaster to argue. A stack of plates slide off the counter, though Sirius' wand is on the kitchen table. Harry watches the plates fall, watches expensive china shatter into a thousand tiny fragments, and when he looks back at Sirius, he is afraid. 

Dumbledore starts to speak, but Sirius is quicker, Apparating out of the kitchen without a word. Dumbledore is quiet for a long moment, studying empty space where Sirius had been. When he finally speaks, he apologizes to Harry, not for his own words, but for Sirius'. Then Dumbledore leaves, shards of china crunching under the heels of boots as he heads for the door. The noise is dry and brittle, a sound that makes Harry think of dead bodies and broken hearts. 

He realizes that if someone is to go after Sirius, as someone must do, it will have to be him, because Remus is no longer here. 

He finds Sirius in the room he had shared with Remus. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes glassy and unblinking, Remus' favourite brown cardigan in his lap. Sirius relaxes slightly when he notices Harry, favouring him with a tight smile that does not touch his eyes. He says Remus meant more to him than the family he never had, tells Harry that Dumbledore just doesn't understand. 

At noon, Remus is interred in an ancient wizarding cemetery just south of Grimmauld Place, in the mausoleum of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

The mausoleum is dark and decrepit, a place as dead as the bodies within. Harry does not think Remus would want to be buried here, surrounded by crumbling, black marble, encroached upon by the brown, decaying vines that creep through the cracks in the walls. 

Remus is laid out on a large stone plinth, the robes on his body new and crisp. His hair is neatly combed, framing his face, the torchlight catching in the shocks of grey. His face is peaceful, as if he is sleeping, and Harry wants desperately to go to him and shake him, wants to scream at Remus until he wakes up and saves them all from this bad dream. 

Across from him, Tonks is sobbing into Shacklebolt's shoulder. Next to him, Sirius is stony and silent. His grey eyes are fixed on Remus' body, and he does not notice when Harry takes up his hand. 

Dumbledore starts to speak, Remus' last rites echoing dully of the mausoleum walls. Tonks wails, a sound muffled by Shacklebolt's robes, and Sirius squeezes Harry's hand so hard he thinks it might break. Harry bites his lip to keep from crying out, to distract him from the pain flaring in his fingers. Dumbledore catches his eye, just as he tastes his own blood, and he thinks maybe Dumbledore understands, after all.

**Day Three**

Sirius has no control over this house, he is as much a victim of its sinister whims as he was when he was a child.

He cannot make the voices stop, cannot muffle the endless whispering in his ears. It is everywhere, bodiless chatter that wafts from room to room, ghosting through the hallways and chasing him up and down the stairs. 

His mother screams are ear-splitting and constant, caustic diatribes on his dishonour that howl through the house, morning, noon and night. 

Sirius' wand shakes in his hand as he aims at his mother's portrait, yelling spell after spell at the top of his lungs. His mother only grows louder, only becomes more agitated. Her eyes roll as she screams, saliva foaming at the corners of her mouth. His wand falls from his hand, landing softly on the carpet as he covers his ears to drown her out. Sirius realizes, as he sinks to the floor, that his mother, though decades dead and trapped in a portrait, is the one who truly controls Grimmauld Place. 

He needs Remus; Remus always silenced his mother's screams, Remus always quieted the invisible voices and kept the walls from closing in. 

He shouts for Harry, but Harry doesn't come. His voice won't carry over the thick, stale air, and Harry can't hear him over his mother's wails. 

His mother pauses for a brief moment, and when she starts in again, she tells Sirius of the vile, loathsome characteristics of werewolves. Sirius shouts again, this time at her, and sets fire to the curtains surrounding her portrait before he Apparating to Remus' grave. 

The sudden silence in the mausoleum is startling, almost painful after so many hours of his mother's noise. 

Remus is still in the centre of the room, the flickering torchlight casting shadows that dance over his body. His skin has a healthy glow, as if the Keeping Charm has turned back time, erasing the sickly, paleness that haunted Remus' features after so many years of battling the wolf. 

Sirius remembers, thousands of images crashing together in his mind, things he thought he had forgotten, things swallowed by the Dementors and lost behind the veil. He remembers Remus' hands, the way those fingers felt as they smoothed over his flesh, and Remus' lips, soft and warm, how heat would flare in his belly when Remus' moved them over his neck and jaw. He thinks of being inside Remus, of Remus being inside him, of kissing and fucking and rubbing and coming, of falling asleep, sweaty and sated, next to the only person he ever truly loved.

His hand creeps into his trousers unbidden, fingers curling around the erection he knows he should ignore. He shouldn't do this, not in front of Remus, but his hand moves of its own volition, he cannot stop the slow, squeezing strokes any more than he can bring Remus back to life. 

Sirius can't look away from Remus, his eyes trailing over the familiar planes of Remus' body as he fists his cock. He thinks of the last time he and Remus were together, before Remus left for the continent, how Remus had fucked him so hard he had thought he would break, how Remus had whispered his name when he came, in a voice low and thick with release. 

A chill wind whips up, whistling through the cracks in the walls, rattling the mausoleum's heavy, wooden doors. Sirius comes with a scream, over his hand and onto the dusty floor, Remus' name on his lips, the wind howling through the trees outside with the lonely cry of a wolf.

**Day Four**

Sirius wanders Grimmauld Place like a ghost, a silent, shadowed figure who rarely speaks, who will only eat if Harry presses him.

He spends most of his waking hours as Padfoot, a ball of black fur on the foot of the bed he had shared with Remus. When he is Sirius, he sits in Remus' chair with half-closed eyes, Remus' cardigan over his knees and a bottle of Firewhisky close at hand. Harry is too old to sit in Sirius' lap, and he knows he should feel silly doing it, but he finds it soothing, comforting, and he thinks Sirius does, as well. Sirius seems to like the weight of him against his chest, he relaxes visibly when Harry lays his head on his shoulder and wraps his arms around his neck. 

When he remembers what day it is, he Floos Dumbledore, asking him to postpone the Order meeting, begging him to have it elsewhere. He doesn't know how Sirius will react to a house full of people, especially to Tonks, who he blames for Remus' death, and Snape, who he has hated all his life. 

Dumbledore is adamant, there is a new threat that must be discussed, and it is too late in the day to inform everyone of a change of location. 

Harry expects Sirius to explode when he reminds him of the Order meeting, but he does not. He simply nods and changes into Padfoot, his tail between his legs as he slinks up the stairs. 

Remus' spectre casts a long shadow over the meeting, it is short and sombre, and there is no more talk than is strictly necessary. No one asks about Sirius' absence, but Harry can see the questions in their eyes, can see the way their gazes linger on the empty seat next to him. 

The Order members are quiet as they file out of the kitchen, but they also seem anxious and rushed, as if in a hurry to be quit of the house. He does not blame them, because Grimmauld Place is devoid of life, and packed to the rafters with the mad and the dead. 

Harry can't decide which of the two he is. 

After everyone is gone, he searches for Sirius, and when he can't find him, he cries himself to sleep on Sirius' bed. 

He wakes to a warm weight behind him, to soft breath breezing over the back of his neck and a broad hand resting lightly in his hip. It takes Harry a moment to realize it is Sirius, even though there is no one else it could be. Sirius smells like death, stale and foul, like old, dark places and air that has never seen the light of day. He knows he should go, should leave Sirius to his own bed, but his body is reluctant; this bed is warm, unlike his own cold, empty one across the hall. 

Sirius makes the decision for him, his arm wrapping around Harry's waist, pulling him closer. Harry doesn't understand, he isn't sure of what to do, and he freezes, his breath catching as Sirius' hand slips under the hem of his shirt. Lips slide along the back of his neck, soft and wet, a gentle trail of kisses above the collar of his shirt. Harry shakes from it, and a soft moan escapes his lips, the sensation is overwhelming after all these days of feeling empty and hollow. 

Sirius' cock his hard between them, pressing insistently into the curve of Harry's arse. He doesn't want to think about it, any more than he wants to think about the hand inching towards his flies. But he is hard when Sirius' hand wraps around his cock, and he melts against Sirius, shifting closer to the warmth of his body. Sirius starts to stroke, slowly, and Harry's gasps, the sound loud and harsh in the silence, and he is unable to stop himself from thrusting into the circle of Sirius' fingers. 

Then, Sirius' hand is gone, snatched quickly away as if he was burned. Harry rolls over, and Sirius sitting bolt upright in the bed, choking desperately for air, his eyes wide and frantic. 

He slurs a string of disjointed curses, then Apparates away, leaving Harry alone.

**Day Five**

Grimmauld Place is a house of the dead.

His mother dogs his steps, her portrait worse than any poltergeist. Her screams echo in his mind and plague his dreams, her foul shrieks hard on his heels. The heads of house-elves are on the walls, stuffed and mounted, centuries of madness and servitude on display. They stare at him, and watch him, tracking his movements with their beady, glassy eyes. 

Sirius can hear rats at night, chewing in the basement, scurrying inside the ancient walls. Sirius can't see them, but he knows they are there; delicate paws and wormy tails that remind him of Peter, Peter who died a traitor's death while he was still beyond the veil. Remus is everywhere, in the clothes Sirius won't take out of the wardrobe, in the books he can't bear to pack away. Sirius sees him at the end of every hall, at the top of every staircase, smells him in every room in the house. 

Harry looks like James, so much like James, the James he used to fuck in a Hogwarts four-poster before James went after Lily, before Remus crawled into his bed one night, and everything he thought he knew changed. 

He hadn't meant to touch Harry, but it had been so easy to forget he wasn't James, so easy to fool himself into thinking that James was in his bed again. It had felt so good to have a warm body pressed against his own, to touch someone who wasn't still and silent and dead. Part of him wishes Harry was James, because if Harry was James then James would be alive, and Remus would be alive, maybe even Peter, and Sirius would not be alone, would not be The Marauder That Lived. 

Sirius knows he shouldn't think this way, knows these kinds of thoughts are dangerous, so he Apparates to the mausoleum, not because he wants to touch Remus, but because Remus is the only person who could ever save him from his own mind. 

He does touch Remus; once Remus is in front of him, he is unable to keep his hands to himself. He lightly traces the lines of Remus' nose and cheeks, smooths his hand over his grey-flecked, sandy hair. Remus is still beautiful, even though he has been dead nearly a week, his skin surprisingly warm, soft and supple under Sirius' fingers. He wonders how long the Keeping Charm will last, wonders if it will fade when Remus is shut up inside his vault. He wants to think it will last forever, wants to believe his Moony will never rot and decay into nothing more than a pile of bones and dust. 

He leans over Remus, trailing his lips over his jaw, pressing a soft kiss to a mouth he knows will not kiss back. He is incredibly hard, his cock straining against the cloth of his trousers, seeking friction against the flat edge of the plinth. The stone is harsh and unyielding, almost painful against his sensitive cock, the fabric of his trousers barely muting the roughness. He can't stop rubbing against it, rocking forward, almost onto Remus, pain edging the pleasure of each desperate thrust against the stone. 

Finally, he works a hand between himself and the plinth, needing to feel warm flesh, even if it is his own. His hand wanders Remus' body as he strokes himself, over Remus' arms and shoulders, across his chest and belly. When his hand reaches the place were Remus' cock would he hard if he was still alive, if his heart was still beating and breath was still in his body, Sirius comes, his release staining Remus' robes, dripping thickly onto the hard stone. 

He knows he should cast a Scourgify, but he does not, he wants that little piece of him to be with Remus with they lock him away in his vault the day after next.

**Day Six**

Harry never knew Sirius before Azkaban, and this used to make him angry, but now, as he watches his godfather slip away before his eyes, he thinks he might be glad.

It's hard enough to think of the reckless, carefree boy who went to school with his father, a person he only knows second-hand. If Harry had actually known that Sirius, and loved him, the sharp comparison between then and now would be too painful to bear. 

From what he has heard, after Azkaban, Sirius was only half the man he had once been, and Harry knows his time beyond the veil had cut him in half, once more. Remus' death has divided him, yet again, slicing a healthy chunk out of a man who was not even whole to begin with. 

Sirius was a fey, quiet thing after returning from the veil. He was broken and confused, a person with a memory full of holes and only vague recollection of his own identity. 

Remus was there for him, calm and patient when Sirius screamed and raged, gentle and loving when Sirius cried and shook. Remus coaxed his memory out of hiding with soft words and photo albums, gently reminded him to eat and sleep and shower and shave as if Sirius' forgetting these things was the most ordinary behavior in the world. 

Harry knows now what he chose to ignore during those first precarious weeks after Sirius came home; Remus was what had held him together, and now, without him, Sirius is coming apart at the seams. 

When Sirius is not in Remus' chair or upstairs in his bedroom, Harry takes a deep breath and faces facts, then Apparates to Remus' grave. 

He tries not to look at Remus, even though he knows Remus can't see him, knows he would understand if he could. He squeezes his eyes shut as he moves behind Sirius, wrapping his arms around him, smoothing his hands over his belly and things. Sirius jerks in his arms, and tries to pull away, but Harry holds him, pulling him tightly against his body. He slides a hand down to Sirius' cock, brushing Sirius' hand away and curling his fingers around the hard length. 

Harry turns Sirius around, hoping to draw his attention away from Remus, his hand never leaving Sirius' cock as he shifts him in his arms. Sirius' eyes snap open when they lock with Harry's, his breath catches and his body goes tense, a moment of clarity clawing its way through the insanity. Harry moves quickly, pulling Sirius' head down for a kiss. He doesn't want Sirius to talk, or think, needs to keep him distracted long enough to Apparate them both back to Grimmauld Place. 

Sirius responds immediately, growling low in his throat and arching into Harry's hand. He deepens the kiss, his lips searing and hot, his slick, wet tongue plunging roughly into Harry's mouth. Harry knows they should go, knows they should leave Remus to his rest, but he can't make his mind focus on the spell. His is suddenly warm, tight heat in his belly and fire over his skin, and his mind plays tricks on him, reminding of Sirius' hands on his body and Sirius' cock hard against his arse. 

When Sirius lowers him to the ground he goes easily, his earlier thoughts of Apparating away forgotten. He wants this, even if Sirius is crazy, even if Remus is here, he wants Sirius to finish what he started the other night, even if it is against all sense and reason. 

Pain washes over him when Sirius inches his way inside, but Sirius is gentle, soothing it away with soft words and stroking hand on his cock. Slowly, Harry's body relaxes, his muscles warming around Sirius' cock, letting Sirius fuck him harder, allowing him in deeper. Bright sparks of pleasure spiral through him with every thrust, wave after wave of impossible warmth racing through his veins. Sirius' hand moves to Harry's cock and everything falls apart, pain and loss and death flooding out of him in a rush. 

Sirius calls him James when he comes, murmuring his father's name against his neck as empties himself inside him, but Harry decides it doesn't matter, because Sirius looks move alive in that moment than he has since Remus died.

**Day Seven**

When Sirius comes downstairs in the morning, Remus is in the kitchen making tea.

Something about this strikes Sirius as odd, but he doesn't question it, because Remus is smiling at him, his amber eyes glittering mischievously. He abandons his tea on the counter and moves to Sirius, wrapping his arms around him. Sirius kisses him, a slow, hot slide of lips and tongue. Remus moans softly into Sirius' mouth, and pulls him close, his hands wandering Sirius' body, his tongue chasing Sirius' own. 

Remus hauls him around and walks him towards the kitchen table, pushing Sirius back against it as he drops to his knees. He teases Sirius mercilessly, his wicked tongue circling lightly over the head of Sirius' cock, tracing lazy patterns over its hard length. He presses soft kisses on it, a wet trail from base to tip, tongue sneaking out to taste after every brush of his lips. Sirius is shaking when Remus finally takes him in, the sudden, sweet suction and the slick heat of Remus' mouth taking his breath away. 

He dares a glance down, wanting to watch his cock disappear into Remus' mouth. He sees Remus is touching himself, long fingers wrapped around his cock, fisting himself in time with the rhythm of his mouth on Sirius. The sight of Remus touching himself has always made him lose control, and he starts to thrust into Remus mouth, urging Remus to take him deeper, coming in thick bursts down Remus' throat when Remus' muscles flutter over the head of his cock. He pulls Remus up just in time, gets his hand between them just as Remus gasps and shudders against him, warmth spilling over his fingers. He brings them to his mouth, licking them clean, and Remus leans in to kiss him, tasting himself on Sirius' hand as his tongue meets Sirius' around his fingers. 

When he remembers how to breathe, he tells Remus of a dream he had the other night, a dream of a small, quiet funeral, and Remus' still, lifeless body on display. 

Remus only laughs, and says that nightmares are on the par for people who sleep in Grimmauld place. 

After breakfast, Remus leaves. He tells Sirius he can't live in London any more, he has finally found a job, hired by people who don't mind his monthly problem. It is up in Scotland, all the way in Aberdeen, and Remus will have to live there, at least for now, but he will visit as often as he can. 

Sirius starts to complain, he does not want to be alone in this house, but Remus insists he has to go, and tells him James will be by shortly. Sirius reminds him that James is dead, but Remus only smiles as he Apparates away, and fifteen minutes later, James Potter is in his sitting room. 

He stares at James for a long moment, eyes wide with shock, trying desperately to reconcile a living, breathing James with the jumble of disjointed memories in his mind. He remembers James dying, and Lily dying, Peter vanishing from a Muggle street corner a flash of hot, white light. He thinks of screaming Muggles and hard-faced Aurors and a single finger on the pavement at his feet. He remembers time spend in Azkaban, trapped in a small, stone cell with Dememtors whispering in his ears. 

He looks at James, sitting on Remus' favourite chair, and decides it must have been a dream. 

James' lips are warm and familiar, but different somehow, softer and sweeter. James tastes different, as well, of cinnamon and treacle instead of Ice Mice and Bertie Botts, but it is James, his James, kissing him like he used to, before Lily came along. He wonders briefly about Lily, wonders why James is here with him and not at home with her. But, James' mouth is on his skin, lips sliding wetly over his jaw and neck, and he thinks maybe the wedding he vaguely remembers never happened in the first place. 

James' fucks him on the sitting room floor, hard and fast, his long, thick cock thrusting roughly inside him. James' hands map out his body, flat palms smoothing over pale skin, fingers tracing the lines of his ribs. Sirius hisses when James touches his cock, stroking in time with his strong, frantic thrusts, his thumb brushing over the head every time he grazes Sirius' prostate. He bucks up to meet James, rocking against him, lost in the rough, delicious friction of skin sliding over skin. James' teeth sink into the soft flesh of his neck and he comes, his vision flashing white as his tightening muscles drag James' over the edge. 

When James collapses on top of him, shaking and breathless, there is a flash of green in his eyes Sirius has never seen before. It reminds him of something he can't quite recall, of falling into a dark, empty place, where time had no meaning, where he didn't have a name. 

James kisses him, slowly, his tongue tangling lazily with Sirius' own, and Sirius thinks he might be going crazy, thinks he is remembering things that never happened, at all.

**The Quibbler**

Harry strains against the hands pinning his hips to the bed, trying desperately to thrust into Sirius' mouth. Sirius only holds him down more firmly, fingers bruising Harry's hips as he sucks Harry deeper into his hot, wet mouth. Sirius cock is hard against him, swollen flesh rubbing slowly against his thigh. He wants to touch it, wants to feel it in his hand, but he can't reach it, and Sirius won't let him move.

Sirius swallows him down, sucking Harry's cock deep into the back of his throat. Tight muscles move around his cock, gently massaging the head. Sirius' fingers brush over his entrance, a teasing, fleeting touch, but Harry comes apart, moaning loudly as his release floods Sirius' mouth. He feels Sirius thrust against him, grinding himself against Harry's leg. He pulls Sirius up to him, wanting to get Sirius' cock in his hand, in his mouth, but Sirius gasps and shudders before Harry gets the chance, hot spurts of come spreading over his thigh. 

Sirius kisses his him, then curls around him, his head pillowed on Harry's shoulder. 

As Sirius drifts off to sleep, Harry lets the glamour fade, the shape of his nose shifting slightly, his eyes changing from hazel to green,

Harry is not sleepy, but he doesn't leave, he doesn't want to wake Sirius, and he knows Sirius hates to sleep alone. He reaches for the copy of The Quibbler he knows is on the night stand, and tries to interest himself in an article about Nargles he has read several times. He turns the page, and a slip of parchment falls into his lap. The missive is short, and unsigned, but Harry immediately recognizes the handwriting as Dumbledore's.

> _There are some things you cannot fix, no matter how hard you try. Never feel that you have no place to go. There is always room for you at Hogwarts._

Harry stares at the note for a long moment, frowning at Dumbledore's words. He thinks of Sirius escaping Azkaban to keep him safe, of Sirius living as a dog and eating rats to stay close to him, of Sirius, at the Ministry of Magic, dying while trying to protect him.

He crumples Dumbledore's note in his hand, and reduces it to ash with a muttered spell. He knows Dumbledore is right, knows he cannot fix anything, cannot change anything, but he will not abandon Sirius now, not after everything he has done for him. The glamour is a simple enough spell. It is such an easy thing, and it keeps Sirius happy. The cache of hair will last long enough, if he is careful and uses it sparingly. He doesn't want to think about what will happen when it runs out, so he doesn't. 

He Summons a piece of parchment and a quill, and owls Hermione for another bottle of polyjuice.


End file.
